


For Blue Skies

by lovedsammy



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Emotional Abuse, Gen, PTSD, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse, non-con/rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:19:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovedsammy/pseuds/lovedsammy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU-Felina. This attempt to save Jesse from the clutches of hell had been his last-ditch effort to preserve what he had left of any form of family he ever loved. He didn’t expect a thanks, he didn’t expect for him to be grateful, or for this to change anything between them at all. But for once, this wasn’t about any act for forgiveness, because he didn’t deserve it. This was about Jesse, and helping to try and heal some of the damage, if even just physically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Blue Skies

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Brba Kink Meme Prompt:  
> http://brbakinkmeme.livejournal.com/521.html?thread=141577#t141577  
> I had meant to make this shorter, but it got away from me - 18 and a half pages worth lmfao. This turned more into H/C than just Walt realizing the amount of torture Jesse had gone through, rape included, and the ending, I don't even know -- I just didn't foresee them being together for long even if things were starting to improve, haha. 
> 
> GREATLY inspired by the song "For Blue Skies" by Strays Don't Sleep. Seriously, that's the only song I had playing while writing this and set the mood for it, so feel free to listen to it if you want to cry oh my goddd.

He doesn't count the days anymore.  
  
He'd lost track too long ago, exactly how long it's been since he's been here, in this makeshift cell that is nothing more than a hole in the ground, as though it were already a constructed coffin where he'd spend the rest of eternity. And perhaps it was. He'd made peace with that, that this was where he would die as he lived for what now felt like a large portion of his life.  
  
In a way, it had; he'd always been surrounded by iron bars and four walls, imprisoned. But it had always been an imaginary cell in his head that kept him stationary and unable to escape. And even then, he'd held the key to his own freedom, but had been too afraid, too insecure, too ashamed to turn it. Except now, his physical body was trapped here, unable to leave, that dead-eyed, creepy bastard Todd's voice still in his head.  
  
 _You know what happens if you try to leave again, right? You know, Jesse._ He'd nodded numbly, Andrea's murder still fresh and raw, and his heart and soul had felt as though they'd been skinned and flayed until nothing was left, leaving him nothing more than a half-alive shell. After that, he hadn't tried to fight anymore. There were times, however rare, that some spark of life seemed to reignite out of nowhere, and he'd become tempted to mess up a cook, or utter a hateful "fuck you" to Jack and the other members of his little posse, but he always held back, not knowing just how little, if one word of rebellion would inspire them to punish him with Brock's life.  
  
But though he'd given up on any more attempts to escape, though he never fought, they'd seemed to find reason to punish him more. The first time, it was the night they'd killed Andrea, taking it deliberately slow and hard as he screamed and cried behind his gag. Once they'd taken what they'd wanted, they had laughed, and kicked, and pushed him painfully onto his stomach across the floor of the cell. After they had left, he'd crawled, barely able to move, onto the small pad that could barely be called a mattress, lying in the filth that dripped from his backside and down his thighs and legs as he sobbed.  
  
They came back again the next night.  
  
And the next. And the next. Repeatedly, and by the time four months had passed, he'd finally learned to stop screaming. They'd taken their turns again tonight, hours ago now, and his body still shook slightly from the aftereffects with barely noticeable tremors – he'd gotten better at hiding this, too – as he lied on his unwounded side on the cot, curled in on himself in a desperate attempt to keep warm, and to keep the pain at bay.  
  
The tarp had been left off, as it had been since the night he'd escaped, as if it were a daring temptation for him to try it again. But any attempt he might have made never came to fruition. There was no escaping this, this deliberating hell hole that he'd been thrown into. He closed his eyes in a vain attempt to sleep. There'd be another cook today, in just a couple hours most likely, as the sun was beginning to pour in through the bars and it was never too long after that Todd would come to collect him.  
  
It was just another day in Hell, and at last he succumbed to the pull of sleep, damning Walter White's name. 

* * *

Never again would he have thought he'd find himself here.  
  
It felt like years now that he'd held onto the pipe dream of coming to retrieve his vengeance on Jack and his gang, coming back to take the money they'd stolen, get retribution for Hank's murder. Those long days and nights, weeks, months, in New Hampshire had caused him to give up on such notions, but here he was, once more. The same place that had ironically caused his downfall would now be his rise towards redemption instead.  
  
They'd get theirs, the M60 hanging tightly around his neck and falling to his side. It was heavy, so heavy, and he struggled to move with his sickly, thinned frame as he walked, but there was someone else who needed to be dealt with first, someone else who was in need of his attention. The perimeter of the Nazis’ hideout was littered with trash and an awful stench that for a long moment made his heart drop into his stomach – because if Jesse was dead, then a part of the reason for his return, in his last-moment attempt to rescue the kid had been orchestrated too late.  
  
It wasn't until his eyes found the barred, cellular hole in the ground that he knew. The clothed top had been moved to the side, and as he quietly approached, he could see the outline of a body inside. Jesse. Walter stopped short of construction and lowered himself down to peer inside more closely. Jesse was asleep, but for all Walt knew, he might as well have been dead. He was pale, the side of his face that Walt could see bruised and decorated with small cuts, the hair that had grown back out dirty and in disarray. His clothes looked way too lived in, too filthy, and there was no denying what the stench was when he caught sight of the bucket in the far corner and gagged.  
  
Jesse had been living in literal hell for months, and it had been his fault. Slowly, quietly, he removed the latch to the inside, careful not to wake the boy. Even slower, he lifted the cage door to the side, wincing as it creaked, though Jesse did not stir. It was a good distance down, and there was nothing to shield his fall should he jump, and Jesse would surely wake. Walt was confident that the kid wouldn't hesitate to either beat the shit out of him or shoot him in the head at first sight, but he needed to go to him, he needed to check on him, get him out of here if he could.  
  
Looking around, he spotted a length of rope a few yards away. A bucket was attached to it, most likely their way of a food-delivery system, and he undid the knot, tying a portion of it onto one of the bars. A small nod to himself of decision, he climbed down, barely able to keep hold of it as it stung his hands with the texture. It extended to about a foot from the floor and he let go, landing loudly, but not enough to warrant Jesse to awaken, and breathed a sigh of mild relief.  
  
Walter's gaze traveled along the young man as he tipped closer, and then suddenly, Jesse was sitting upright, looking like a deer who had been caught in headlights. “No, no,” His voice broke, panicked and afraid, “I already gave you what you wanted, right? You already did it, didn't you, and it's not time to cook yet, it isn't – ”  
  
He stopped, seeming to realize who it was before him as the remnants of sleep left him, widened eyes turning to normal. They were the same pale blue that Walter remembered, but there seemed to be no spark of life there, no emotion, no sign that anything or anyone existed behind them. It was a stark contrast to eyes he'd seen roar with life, hatred and anger defining them to colorful animation. That was how he last remembered Jesse's eyes. This, this was something new...   
  
“You finally showed up.”  
  
The dead-panned tone only further stunned him, and for the first time since he'd last seen the kid, worry and concern, and a wee bit of affection, had started to swell inside him. “Jesse...”  
  
He reached out, in an attempt to hug him or hold him, he wasn't sure, but Jesse flinched away from his touch, scooting as far back as he could inside such a crammed space, away from Walter, his body shaking as he stood. “Get away from me,” He growled, the first hint of emotion beginning to salivate his voice, “You've got no right, not after what you did...”  
  
The older man swallowed, retracting his hand, watching his former pupil closely. Jesse wasn't beating the shit out of him yet, so either he was still half-asleep, or he was in no physical state to do so. Walter realized it was likely the latter, now seeing just how in bad of shape Jesse was now that he was getting a good look at him. “What have they done to you?” He found himself whispering.  
  
The way the kid held himself, not completely upright, with just a little bit of a bent, and arms that didn't hang limp at his sides, but in a sort of protective position at his middle. The tremors, the frightened response before he knew it had been him, the dead look in his eyes. There was no denying that some sort of torture had been going on, and for the long term, but there was something that wasn't right, something that was disturbing him far more than the bruises and cuts on Jesse's face. God knew he'd seen the kid beaten to all hell before, too many times if he were honest, but though Jesse had been somewhat afraid after, especially where Tuco was considered, he never reacted like this, always had a little bit of fight left in him.  
  
Something other than beatings and torture had gone on here, and deep in the pit of his stomach, he thought he knew what it was. Jack's gang were a burly and degenerate bunch, the kind of guys who'd enjoy dominating smaller, younger men for power. Jesse not only fit that criteria, but living here as a prisoner and meth-slave, a plaything to do with as they pleased ( _again, your fault,_ he reminded himself), it was becoming clear just how far this had gone, just how much damage had been inflicted on him.  
  
His epiphany must have shown on his face, because Jesse was watching his expression closely, and shifted his eyes as he looked away, with the first flicker that something other than a dead man existed behind them. Walter backpedaled, crashing faintly into the wall behind him, breathless. Horror and shock filled his being, and he struggled to hold back the bile that was rising in his throat. “Oh, Jesse...”  
  
The kid said nothing, and in silence they lingered.  
  
It was too long, much too long, when Walt found the courage to speak again. “I never should have left you to them.” It was an understatement, a poor, pathetic attempt at some sort of apology. It was also perhaps one of the only times he was legitimately, truthfully, honest with the boy in front of him. Overwhelming regret and guilt was all that was dwelling inside his being, his direct involvement to the prolonged torture the kid had to go through, hurting and cutting far deeper than even Junior and his family’s rejection of him. It was weighing on him, as though the crushing truth of it all were pressing further and further into his chest until he could barely breathe.  
  
“Yeah, well, you did,” Jesse spoke at last, hurt and bitterness seeping into his tone, though it still did not reflect in his worn, weathered features. “So why don't you just get the fuck out of here and leave me to rot, like you've been keen on doing for however long I've down here, huh? You say you wanna save me? Then put me out of my misery with a damn bullet to the head, alright?”  
  
Walter's brows furrowed further with affliction, moisture beginning to develop from behind his framed glasses. He swallowed hard, as though to quench the emotion raging inside him, and gave a small shake of the head. “Jesse, I'm not going to kill you. I know the last time we saw one another, I left you to them with the notion that they'd kill you quickly and that would be the end of it. But that's not why I'm here. I don't want to see you dead.”  
  
He paused. “Not anymore.”  
  
Something crossed Jesse's expression as he stared at Walt, hard, scrutinizing, as though trying to pave out what was honesty and what was lies, but it vanished before Walt could even begin to fathom it. “It doesn't matter anyway,” He rasped, a small shudder passing his thinned frame with obvious pain, “I've got nothing outside of here, nothing to go back to, even if you wanted to get me out.”  
  
“Now that's not true, Jesse. Andrea, she's waiting for you, she –”  
  
“She's dead.”  
  
It was another blow to his already guilt-stricken heart. “What?”  
  
“They killed her,” And for the first time, Jesse's face leveled with emotion, eyes welling up as his breathing became more ragged, hitched. “Because I tried to run. That asshole Todd shot her right in front of me and I couldn't do anything – ” He broke off, a sob catching in his throat. “I could've saved her, if I hadn't...” The young man gave a stifling breath and stumbled, holding onto the wall for support.  
  
There was no hesitation, no more second-guessing himself; Walt crossed the remaining distance between him and the wrecked boy and crushed the kid against him in an embrace. To his surprise, Jesse didn't even attempt to push him away, or recoil, though he stiffened at the touch, and Walter raised his hand to gingerly cradle the back of Jesse's head, finger tips brushing through his regrown, greasy hair. “I'm sorry, Jesse. I am so, so sorry.”  
  
 Jesse mumbled something unintelligible against him, something that the muffled cloth of Walter's jacket prevented him from hearing. But within seconds, the kid gave an agonized wail and was falling to pieces in his arms, like fragile glass that had only been held together with the least effective of tape. Walter shushed him gently, whispering 'it's okay, it's okay' over and over as he held him. In that instant, he knew everything, every bit of ire and anger he'd felt towards the younger man since they'd last departed, since Jesse had rightfully turned his back on him, had vanished. “We'll fix this,” He promised. _We'll fix everything those bastards have done to you._  
  
He still had a score to settle them, the matter of his money and his revenge for Hank, but right now, he had to get Jesse somewhere safe, and it was not down here in the foul-smelling hideout. He felt the kid slump exhaustively against him, Walter being the only thing continuing to hold him upright. “Okay, Jesse? Son, I need you to wrap your arms around me. Just like when I came looking for you before, you remember? Gonna take you somewhere safe, but I need you to work with me.”  
  
He began to lift him, but unless Jesse cooperated, getting them both out of here was going to be extremely difficult, and with a bunch of Nazi murderers back in the house, he needed to get Jesse out of here quickly. “I'm going to need you to hold on to the rope, okay? Just hold onto it. I'll climb up first, then I'm going to pull you up and we'll get you out of here. Do you hear me?”  
  
Jesse gave a tiny nod of agreement, and Walt ran his fingers through the kid's hair again to prompt him. Slowly, he removed himself from Jesse's shuddering body, satisfied when Jesse stayed uprooted on his own two feet. “Good,” He encouraged. “That's good, Jesse, just stay right there until I can get the rope down to you again.”  
  
-  
  
A large part of him didn't know he was doing this, why he was letting the old geezer play around with him again, to listen to him, to not expect him to kill him as soon as he had him up on the landing. But a larger part wanted out of here, no matter what laid beyond, and even if the bastard wanted to pop him in the head with a bullet right now, Jesse found that he didn't have it in him to care anymore. He was too exhausted, too weak, in too much pain both physically and emotionally to care what happened next. If Mr. White –  when had the man become that once again in his mind? – was willing to lead him by the hand out of this hell hole and into even his first real glimpse of freedom in weeks, months, then he was, however wearily, inclined to take it.  
  
So he watched, half-attentive, as Walt climbed the length of rope that extended inside to the top of the cell. At the way the man gasped for breath and struggled to put one hand over the other, to make even the simplest of movements with his body. For the first time, he also saw he had grown his hair back too, and looked far sicker and older than Jesse could ever remember seeing him. So the cancer being back hadn't been a lie. More so, for however long they'd both been away from each other, the times had apparently not been easy on Walter, either. Somehow that filled him more with an estranged sense of sadness than peace.   
  
He didn’t know what to feel right now, seeing the man responsible for putting him here after all this time. He honestly never thought he’d encounter him after the scene in the desert, where the man had coldly, intentionally, told him he’d been there the night Jane had died and had done nothing to save her. How even back then, he’d sought to leave Jesse with nothing and no one. The memory threatened to spark a form of rage deep within once again, but then Walt was calling to him, the rope mere inches from his nose. He moved forward, and yelped in mild surprise; the chain around his waist was catching the ones around his wrists and feet, restricting movement to the slimmest advance.   
  
He looked up at Walt with a searching gaze, as if things hadn’t changed between them and he was asking the man for advice again. The gentle crease in Walt’s forehead was reminiscent of then, of the Mr. White he’d known and cared for, not the egotistical kingpin he’d come to know him as. “You can do it, Jesse,” He encouraged, holding out his hands as if to reach for him. “Just hold onto it, as tightly as you can. I’ll do the rest. Just hold on.”   
  
A small nod, and he struggled to move the chains enough to begin to ascend the rope. Immediately, it was like his hands were on fire; the already blistered wounds and scrapes on the flesh reacted negatively to the texture of the rope, strong and bulky and stinging. He whined, involuntarily, using every bit of his strength to heave himself up just a bit, enough to wrap his legs around the rope in a tangle, hands gripping on for dear life as he squeezed his eyes shut. Walt was whispering, encouraging him as he started to lift the rope bit by bit. “Thatta boy, Jesse, come on.”  
  
Just when the last of his strength seemed to give out and his hands began to slip, and he imagined himself falling back inside the pit in a heap, Walt’s hands had seized him under his armpits, lifting him the rest of the way. Walt collapsed onto the ground, still cradling Jesse awkwardly against him as they both attempted to catch their breath. He opened his eyes at last, and Walter released him. It was a moment before either of the two spoke, or knew exactly what to do, just sitting opposite each other, recognizing what situation they were now in and where to go from there.   
  
Jesse struggled to stand, the chains clanking against the metallic door, and Walt reached out to steady him and survey the restraints. He made to try and pry them off the young man, but Jesse hissed in discomfort and he stopped, shaking his head. “Jesus. These are just...” He gave a hateful glance in the compound’s direction, the M60 at his side tantalizingly tempting. “Who has the keys to these, Jesse?”  
  
“Todd,” The younger man croaked, voice not used to such prolong use. “He, uh... he keeps them on him. In like, his pockets, so I can never get close enough, plus these damn things....” He tugged uselessly on the shackles. “Though last time I got away, I used this picker, a paper clip.”   
Walt nodded evenly, still sidelining the house, a fist clenched at his side as that hard, stiff look that always sent a pang of fear through Jesse came over it. Then it was gone, and the gentler disposition was back, and Walt was leading him away from the hideout, back towards his car. The kid staggered, buckling to his knees with depleting physical strength more than once, Walt having to catch him before he collapsed to the ground. It took longer than it should’ve, but after some joint effort, Walt was finally able to heave him into the car. Jesse groaned and whined in pain again as he attempted to adjust himself more comfortably into a sitting position rather than the uncomfortable posture in the backseat, but every little movement seemed to hurt the kid even more until there were tears in his eyes.  
  
The older man gave a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat as he placed the seat belt around Jesse as painlessly as he could, his lips curling in disgust once the leather was over him and he felt how gaunt the boy was and how the way the men had treated him, like a dog, like a pet, like some wild animal to be kept and restrained. It took all of his willpower and better judgement not to go in there with the M60 right now and blow all those fuckers’ heads off, but Jesse was his priority – there’d be time to exact beautiful, deserved revenge later, for all the things they’d done to not only him, but Jesse as well. They already had the consequences to pay for their crimes of crossing him before, and now they would pay even more, especially for this. “Jesse,” He spoke again, in a voice barely above a whisper, “I know there is a lot of bad blood between us. That I’ve done many things to hurt you, but I...”   
  
He trailed off. Jesse was no longer looking at him; instead, his head was lolled to one side, and after pressing a quick hand to his forehead, it was no wonder why. The kid was burning up with fever, the wounds that he was able to see more clearly in the light a yellowish white with the first sign of growing pus and infection, and he cursed. Passing out would hopefully recover some of the kid’s energy for when he woke up, and would give Walt some time to attend to him. Somewhere away from here, somewhere they wouldn’t be spotted, but where?   
  
The cabin in New Hampshire would’ve been a good place if it weren’t for the fact that it was likely being watched now that he’d left the state. His old house was out of the question, with Carol having seen him there earlier, and Jesse’s place... well, he was sure that was being watched, too. Any public service was going to be problematic, such as a motel or hotel, or anywhere like it. But it would be the least likely place to be exposed, and he could easily disguise himself, a hat and some sunglasses. It was Jesse who would be the problem.   
  
Not many people would take kindly to an abused, dirtied, and imprisoned man looking like he’d just crawled out of the depths of fucking Hell. Plus, the police were surely looking for Jesse. They were in a rut, he knew that, but he had to be willing to risk the chance of being caught if it meant getting Jesse help. He turned the key in the ignition, expression set, and took off before he could give any more time to ponder it. 

* * *

When Jesse came to, he was lying on a soft, warm surface that he recognized as a bed, and allowed himself the peaceful moment of enjoying it, because this was unquestionably a dream, a fabrication of sorts from his sick body to help ease his stress. None of it was real, he had just dreamt that the asshole Mr. White had come back from practically the freaking grave to come save him...   
  
But then the man was leaning over him, gently lifting his head as he poured something – water, he realized – into Jesse’s mouth, which he drank greedily, thirstily, barely allowing himself to care as it caused a grimace due to his sore, aching throat. “That’s good,” Whispering. “That’s good, Jesse, just drink.”   
  
A little flutter of more warmth, of peace, soared through him and he moaned contentedly, eyes fluttering closed once again as he was pulled back into the lure of sleep. He never felt Walt move his head back onto the pillow to prevent him from cramping his neck, never saw the way the man’s smile broadened as he pushed stray pieces of the kid’s fringe from his face, or applied first aid to the many cuts and scars across his damaged flesh.   
  
-  
  
More whispering.   
  
He was in some weird state of being asleep and not; for reasons he didn’t discern, didn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend, he was sitting up, screaming, thrashing wildly. He barely recognized that Walt was there, holding him by his arms to prevent him from holing off and hurting himself, shushing him, voice soothing as he tried to coax him to relax and go back to sleep. From somewhere deep inside him, Jesse let out a tortured sob and cried until he was asleep not on the bed, but in the other man’s arms. And Walt simply held him, let him stay like that, because it was only becoming even more increasingly clear how far the damage extended, even further back than the imprisonment, the scars he had helped cause and created in turn, and it was killing him.   
  
-  
  
The next time he woke, it was with an overwhelming, insatiable urge to use the bathroom. He quickly fumbled, half-awake, expecting the loud rattle of chains to prevent him from hurrying into a sitting position so he could get up, but found they were gone. And he was still on the soft bed and Mr. White was asleep in the armchair next to it, mouth agape partly with mild snores and fingers that rested at the hem of Jesse’s pillow.   
  
For a minute, the desire to take a piss abated.  
  
He simply stared, transfixed, at the man who a few months ago had calmly ordered about his death and sent him to be tortured before being the assholes killed him. This was the same man who had poisoned Brock and watched Jane choke to death and had caused the deaths of Gus Fring and many others alike and had not flickered an eye. This was the same man who had manipulated him over and over and played on his emotions as though he were a fiddle waiting to be strummed. That was Heisenberg. That was Walter White.  
  
This man wasn’t.  
  
He was someone new, someone different, but still very much the same man. He was Heisenberg and Walter White combined, but he was also a different entity, an existence that going by the fake ID laid out on the bedside stand was a ‘Mr. Lambert’, the name he’d undoubtedly chosen to use in light of escaping to that new blessed life of his. The man from New Hampshire. Somehow, Jesse couldn’t find it within himself to completely hate this man before him.   
  
Oh, how easy, now that he was recovering it would be for him to just bash the asshole over the head with something, with the medieval-looking TV, or just stab him to death with a kitchen utensil, or something else, some other way. The guy was obviously very weak and sick. But he was finding the urge less and less desirable. And he didn’t know why, when he’d spent days and weeks and months just dreaming about this moment, about destroying the physical representation of his darkness forever.  
  
He scurried to the bathroom – a real bathroom! – once his bladder gave a complaint that rivaled his stomach’s and went about his business. It was a struggle just to stay uprooted, his body still weakened severely enough that he used the sink to steady himself, taking deep, clearing breaths. Once he was sure he could move, he looked into the mirror to survey his reflection, noticing the small dabs of something or another coating some of the wounds on his face as well as several small bandages. He was still eerily pale, and his hair looked as if it had been fried it looked so wrong on his head, and he was still in those dirty, foul clothes he’d been in for... had it been two weeks? Longer? He wasn’t sure, but this outfit was the longest he’d ever spent in any single pair of clothes by far.   
  
“Jesse?”  
  
The low, concerned voice in the other room broke his reverie just as he had lifted up his shirt to the middle of his back to see how damaged his upper body was and immediately stopped, breath hitching. “... Y-Yeah?” It was strange, so strange, being here with him. It was strange, and painful, and awkward, and he didn’t know what to even say to the man, if he wanted to say anything at all. What was there that could be said, anyway? There was too much damage there, it was too fractured now...   
  
“Are you all right? Do you need help?”   
  
“No,” He responded, a bit curtly, with an undertone of aggression. “Just... go back to bed, Mr. White.” The familiar title left his mouth before he could stop it, and he shook his head. _Not Mr. White. Walt. It’s Walt now, remember?_  
  
But Walt either hadn’t heard or ignored him; he came trudging into the bathroom just as Jesse made to pull his shirt down, and his eyes widened, and he stopped. “Oh, my god.”   
  
“I just told you not to come in here,” Jesse found himself growling, shoulders tensing up as the man began to approach him once more, knowing the man had seen and wishing he could just evaporate and disappear he felt so small. “Hey, no, man, get the fuck away from me...” He didn’t know why, perhaps it was the inner hatred that still existed for him, perhaps it was the reality coming full circle of what all he’d been through, but he did not want Walt near him right now. Still, the man came closer until he was slowly, gingerly, lifting Jesse’s shirt slightly, and Jesse pulled away, not wanting him to see, not wanting him to know, though he knew he already did.  
  
He saw it all: the big, purple, blue, yellow-toned bruise on his lower back, the smaller, more disgusting ones on his ribs and other areas until his back was completely covered, and though his pants luckily concealed them, the marks on his hips; the welts from the dog-rush leash chain that were almost embalmed into his spine, red and nasty and painful. He flinched as the cloth was replaced, and ducked his head, unable to meet his former mentor’s eyes. “God, Jesse... what in the hell did they do to you...?”   
  
Walt was asking the question again, and this time Jesse had an answer for him. “What _didn’t_ they do?” He demanded bitterly, and pushed his way past the older man, nearly knocking into his shoulder intentionally as he brushed against him. “I’m goin’ back to bed.”  
  
Now that they were alone, in this closed room, a room Jesse recognized as a run-down motel in the middle of pretty much fucking nowhere, he crawled back into bed, turning his back to Walt. Sleep was no longer any necessity he needed right this second, he was much too wide awake with aches and pains and the discomfort of being near the asshole that had pretty much wrecked the last two years of his life to even think of sleeping. The air was becoming stifling, too warm, suffocating, and he needed to get out of here, but where could he go that a police car wouldn’t be within a two-mile radius and drag him into a new, different sort of prison?   
  
_Still,_ his mind argued. _This is almost one in of itself, being here with this prick._   
  
But at least with him, he knew what to expect.   
  
He could feel Walt’s eyes on him, and something told him the man knew he wasn’t tired, wasn’t going back to sleep, but he still lied there, staring fixatedly through the open window at the lights echoing from the city of Albuquerque in the distance.  
  
-  
  
Walt knew Jesse hated him. Hell, he deserved nothing less, after what had happened. Those last few months in New Hampshire had created something of a wake up call within him once he lost Skyler and the kids due to his own pride and need for self-preservation and egotistical endeavors. After losing Hank. And Marie, who probably despised him as much as Skyler and Junior now did. Still, he knew for a fact that no one loathed him more than Jesse, the person who he’d destroyed the most.   
  
Oh, how wrong he’d been about the kid – he’d had every right to rat him out, to try and bring him down, gone to Hank and Gomez about everything that had gone down between them. And Walt had only added fuel to the fire by trying to get a hit out on him, by using those closest to him once more, and it was selfish. It was wrong. He was wrong. But nothing, he was sure, would warrant Jesse to accept any form of apology from him. Nothing, he was positive, would ever make things right between them again.   
  
This attempt to save Jesse from the clutches of hell had been his last-ditch effort to preserve what he had left of any form of family he ever loved. He didn’t expect a thanks, he didn’t expect for him to be grateful, or for this to change anything between them at all. But for once, this wasn’t about any act for forgiveness, because he didn’t deserve it. This was about Jesse, and helping to try and heal some of the damage, if even just physically. Once he was well enough, he was sure the kid planned to off on his way after he either killed Walt or didn’t, and get to enjoy his life, and the freedom that had been so wrongfully stolen from him.   
  
Walt had already made peace with that. He could accept that.   
  
What he couldn’t possibly accept, or be ready to guess, is the possibility that Jesse might find it within himself to forgive him after all.   
  
-  
  
It was hours before either of them moved or spoke.   
  
Then Walt rose from his chair, mumbled something about going to get coffee and something for them to eat and disappeared out the door, knowing that Jesse wouldn’t respond. It was longer than was necessary, but it was quicker than Jesse had wanted when he returned, two coffees and small, pre-packaged cereal bowls in hand. Frosted Flakes and Fruit Loops.   
  
Brock’s favorite.  
  
The idea that Walt knew Brock’s favorite brand of cereal made his stomach turn unpleasantly, yet he couldn’t find the urge to speak, though the desire to yell, and scream, and pummel the man in front of him was igniting stronger than ever. His fists clenched at his sides beneath the oversized blankets, nostrils flaring. If this asshole decided to hand those over to him, he was going to use it instead to put a nice bruise on the old jackass’s head.   
  
But he didn’t. Instead, he tossed over the Frosted Flakes and small white spoon along with a carton of milk, his features haunted and worn. “Take small bites, and stop if you start to feel sick. You’ve still got a fever. I know you probably haven’t ate in a long time, and your body is going not take kindly to nutrition for awhile. If you can keep that down, some coffee might not be out of the question here.”   
  
Jesse nodded.  
  
The fists relaxed.  
  
-  
  
He awoke again hours later after eating just two spoon fulls before he decided he’d had enough and was unable to stomach anymore to find that Walt was gone. Any other time, he’d have been relieved to find the old bastard had run off and abandoned him, the same as he’d always done. But he was shaking, trembling, suddenly lost and afraid in the vision of the nightmares, of the men coming and prying him back into hell, laughing in his face, punching and kicking him.   
  
_“Did you forget already? What we told ya?!”_   
  
“No, no, no, no, please!” He raced up, wild, frantically scrambling off the bed so hard he face-planted directly onto the floor and jolted back up to the door, to run, anywhere, find someone, anyone –   
  
And the door opened and Walt nearly crashed into him, hands filled with two large bags that he tossed down upon seeing the terrified, shaken boy. “Jesse? Jesse, what’s wrong?”   
  
_“Remember what we told ya in the car, you little shit? You try to run again and it’s the kid! You’d be really fucking stupid to try and run off, and even stupider if you still wanna fight and claw at us. We’re gonna fix that right here, right now.”_  
  
Before he knew what was happening, Jesse was clinging onto the man’s shirt, hands shaking with panic tears dripping down his cheeks as hiccups and repressed sobs wracked his torso. He was spewing gibberish, words that he didn’t plan, things he didn’t know he was saying or what coming out of his mouth.   
  
“No, please, don’t, please. I’m sorry, okay? I won’t run, I’ll cook, I’ll do whatever you want, just stop...” He was speaking in broken, hushed whispers that Walt could barely make out through the crying, but he heard it, the desperation and terror in Jesse’s voice. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached around to embrace the kid, rubbing small, soothing motions on his back in circular movements. “Oh, Jesse... it’s all right, son. It’s all right.”   
  
\-   
  
Something was changing.   
  
The fifth day in to being fed soup and bread and small portions of meals and more water to keep him hydrated than he’d ever consumed in his life, and Jesse knew that things were not the same as they had been when he’d arrived here with the man. Oh, the anger, the desire to punish him was still there. But the burning resentment he’d felt, the hateful glances he’d spared when the man’s back had been turned had eased off to something more than tolerance.   
  
And now, there was a sense of comfort, and the urgency to have him near him, when the man was around. He never expressed it visibly since the day he’d crumpled in the man’s arms almost a week ago an absolute wreck, but if Walt left the room for five minutes, he began to get uneasy. After ten, he started to internally panic. He didn’t know if the other male noticed the shift in their dynamic, the change in the way Jesse was growing dependent on him, but if he did, he didn’t draw attention to it. He treated Jesse the same as he had since he’d rescued him from the pit, that same gentleness that was still such a curiosity to Jesse, so confusing. He found himself staring at Walt over soup that night for dinner, and Walt looked up, accidentally meeting his gaze, which Jesse quickly broke, embarrassed.   
  
“Jesse? What’s wrong? What is it?” Walt frowned worriedly,  placing his bowl on the small table beside him, making to rise. “Jesse?”  
  
“Oh, uh, no, it’s nothing like that,” Jesse hesitated, then said: “Um... I was just... wondering... how long was it? That I was... you know... held captive or whatever?”  
  
Walt seemed surprised at the question, that Jesse was asking him anything, and his gaze shifted before he replied, “Just about six months. Counting from the day we last saw each other in the desert. That was the same day I left for New Hampshire.”   
  
Jesse gave an inclination of the head. “New Hampshire, huh? That’s where you’ve been all this time?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
A beat. “What was it like?”   
  
Walter met his gaze again. “Cold,” An edge of a smile touched his lips. “Snowy, isolated. I was up in the mountains, surrounded by wilderness...” He paused, his expression tender and regretful. “In fact, I... I think you would’ve loved it there, Jesse.”   
  
“Yeah,” Jesse breathed, thinking, just imagining such a place. The first real smile in months reached his features as well. “I really think I would’ve too.”   
  
-  
  
The bags turned out to be full of clothes Walt had gotten him – well, stolen, the man had explained, as he had no money on his person – and were a nice, comfortable fit, by far more preferable to the pieces of dirty rags he’d been wearing for the last couple of months. He couldn’t have a shower yet, as his strength was still limited even just over a week had passed, but he got a comb and was able to brush his newly grown hair. They had moved, finally gone to another lowly motel further than the one in Albuquerque, in a small town Jesse didn’t recognize. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, just having finished his first shave in almost half a year, and inched towards the razor, contemplating. After he killed Gale, he had shoved his hair, had cut it because of the trauma it had provided.   
  
The time before his imprisonment, it had remained that short buzz cut he’d been so fond of, the style he’d done partly because of Walt. The once full spikes were now grown flat and thin across his head, that now brushed was still dirty. His hand retracted. Cutting it now would only mean running away again, away from the man he had been, away from the trauma. This time, things would be different.  
  
And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, he was there again.  
  
Back in the pit. Back in his cell. They were yanking him up by his hair, jeering as he cried. Some took him painfully from behind. But Jack, and the other guy, Kenny – they liked to see what he could do with his mouth.   
  
The first time, he saw Todd behind them, head titled to the side in a mild curiosity, as if he saw the situation but didn’t have the emotional capacity to care. He was choking, mouth stuffed full of cock and later come as they released their seed inside him, and he was sobbing thick, fat tears that soaked his cheeks and dripped down his neck. “For a little piece of shit, you sure are good at this, aren’t ya, kid?” He shook his head, eyes pleading, wanting them to stop, to just stop. Beat him up, talk shit, make him cook, anything was preferable to this. His entire body felt as though it were coming apart, like the seams of a doll, and the guys behind him were forceful and rough as they pounded into him, one after the other, as they all took what they wanted from his body.   
  
They touched him, gripped his cock for no other reason than to humiliate him and bruise him, from his genitals to his thighs to his hips when they kicked, punched, or otherwise tossed him around; they came inside him until he was stuffed so full it soaked his pants and dried a nasty, crusted-over stickiness along his buttocks and his legs.  
  
The last time was the night before his rescue.   
  
In a matter of seconds, he’s dry heaving over the sink, blood dripping down his wrists and forearms and glass all around him from where he’d shattered the broken mirror. He’s screaming, yelling, from pain as well as fright, and Walt comes barreling into the room, horrified. “Jesse? _Jesse?!_ ”   
  
The screams turn to sobs, and he wretches himself away from Walt as the man goes to help him, the blood on his arms smearing with Walt’s touch as the boy cradles into himself on the floor, huddled pathetically against the base of the tub, cowering, arms raised over his head protectively. Walt tries again, but Jesse doesn’t seem to recognize him, nearly hyperventilating as he claws and pushes and flails to get the other man away from him.   
  
There are small blood trails all over the floor and all over the panic-stricken kid and Walt needed to get it to stop, to stop, because the cuts weren’t that deep but just seeing the red oozing from the flesh is making Walt lightheaded with absolute fear. He approaches again, but Jesse screams at him to leave him alone, please just leave him alone, shaking and trembling with terror. Walt doesn’t know how to react, how to calm him down. How to assure him he was okay, that everything was going to be okay.   
  
He can’t touch Jesse, since it’s only scaring the kid even more, and he can’t forcibly get him to calm down, but he’s bleeding and injured. There are knocks at the door, urgent voices demanding if everything is okay and he has to raise his, say that it is, then go back to trying to calm Jesse before he knocks himself out or worse. He’s seen Jesse emotionally traumatized before; but this, this is something even he never expected. Something he’s not prepared to deal with, something he doesn’t know if he has the emotional capacity to handle. He rises, leaving Jesse, and leans against the bathroom door as he closes it, head resting against the cool wood. Tears are coming unbidden and uncontrollable, and he has to catch himself before he breaks down completely.   
  
He has no right, he knows that – but his heart is breaking a million times over for the tortured soul in the bathroom that might as well be his surrogate son. A son he failed, just as he failed his real one. Except the damage he had caused Junior, while irreparable, was nothing to the torture he’d subjected his other son to, the damage he’d inflicted a thousand times over himself, a damage that not only could never be healed, but could never be fully coped with, either.   
  
Jesse’s hell was another form of hell.   
  
-  
  
He finally gets him to calm down when Jesse cries himself out and bandages his injured wrists. The blood has been cleaned up from the floor and stopped on the kid, and he is still rocking back and forth against the tub, but he’s speaking now, however muffled and with snippets of words that aren’t strung together in correct sentences. Dirty. Unclean. So, so dirty.   
  
After an hour, the kid mumbles that he wants a bath, but the fever is back, and Walt is not comfortable with the thought of leaving him in the bathtub alone in his state. But Jesse persists, practically begs, eyes unfocused and hazy, delirious. It reminds him so very much of the day in the crack den, when Jesse had been strung out on whatever it had been that he was using. So he agrees, however reluctantly – and to his surprise, Jesse asks him to stay with him.  
  
Of course, he chooses to give the boy some privacy. They were both men, Jesse had nothing that he didn’t have himself, but he didn’t want to further humiliate him by watching him clean up, either. God knew the poor kid had been dehumanized enough. Still, he hears Jesse groan and wince and crack in the comfort of the warm water, small, wracking cries shaking his frame.   
  
He doesn’t turn to look at Jesse, but from the corner of his eye, he can see them: the welts, the bruises, the cuts, the burns, the way the blue and purple smudges extend from his hip bones all the way down to the center of his thighs. His sight doesn’t linger, but he gets the gist of what Jesse was remembering when he’d seen the clothes he had been wearing for the time he had, the odor coming from them, the bulkiness they had. It’s enough to make his stomach turn unpleasantly and a pit of ire rise inside him like a reignited candle. That night, after Jesse’s cleaned up and in new, comfortable clothes, he doesn’t eat.  
  
-  
  
Walt’s awakened at some point to the sound of Jesse retching.   
  
The pain medication and fever reducing has barely had an effect, and the kid is coated in a cold, sticky sweat as he heaves into the toilet bowl. Walt is at his side immediately, attempting to keep down his own bile, and rubs soothingly onto the boy’s hunched shoulders. He starts when Jesse relaxes, even leans a little into the touch and mumbles a barely audible, “thanks.”   
  
Maybe, he thinks, something has finally started to change.  
  
-  
  
More than anything, he wants Jesse to talk about this.   
  
He wants him to release the pain he’s held inside him, for him to lay those tortures as Walt’s feet so the man may not shoulder them, but take them as his own. If he could erase Jesse’s pain, then he would do it, ten-fold. He comes to realize he loves this kid that is like a son to him, loves him in a way that he was sure that Jesse’s father did not, that no one ever truly had.   
  
He is astonished by how easy this revelation comes to him, how deep-rooted it had been all this time. Perhaps it is the disappearance of the guise of Heisenberg he’d been trying to uphold for so long that it had shielded him from the truth, but he loves him. The desire to protect, comfort, and take care of this wretched kid was all that was motivating him these days, encouraging him to go one second longer.   
  
Jesse was quickly becoming his will to continue to live. And only when that deed was up, only when he was sure that Jesse could carry on in the world without him or any crutch to hold him up, was the day he’d be content to lay down the remainder of his life, knowing all his affairs and all the people he loved were truly safe. It’s been a week, but he has not yet gone to the Nazis’ hideout – he knows he should, he will; but he knows when he goes, he’s not coming back, and until Jesse is fully recovered, he’s not about to abandon him before the kid can handle being alone again.   
  
After nine days, Jesse can stand without hobbling. After ten, he’s eating properly. After eleven and twelve, he has color and the wounds on his face are beginning to heal. After two weeks, the kid can move much better, and Walt thinks, maybe, now it’s time.   
  
His only hope is that one day Jesse can be able to cope mentally with the horrors he’d faced in the Nazis’ compound, can begin to function and survive and try to forget these last two years ever happened, that he had never met the human cancer that was Walter White.   
  
-  
  
It’s his first shower without any aid or support from the man in the other room, and he basks in it. He’s started to feel like himself again, though he knew he would never truly be the same man he had been before. Too much had happened, too much had changed. Part of him wonders how much longer he would’ve held on had Walt not come to get him from captivity – would he have been tempted to end it all, despite the fear he had of death, of ending his own life?  
  
He is scared to die, but before this, he was even more scared to live.  
  
There’s a light rap on the door once he finishes dressing and he clears his throat, opening it just enough to meet his former mentor’s eyes. “Yeah?”   
  
“I’m heading out.”   
  
There’s something final and definitive in that tone, something that develops a bad feeling in the middle of Jesse’s gut. “Out where?” He asks cautiously, opening the door further. When Walt doesn’t respond and turns away instead, he inches his way back out. “Wait, Mr. White!”  
  
He doesn’t understand why he’s doing this. Why... why was he always falling back into the same patterns when it came to this guy? Why couldn’t he just learn to let go? Why was he finding himself latching onto the man’s arm in an attempt to stop him, from doing something, of what he wasn’t sure, stupid and reckless and in every bit inside him told him it wasn’t going to end well?  
  
More importantly, why did he care?   
  
“Jesse...”   
  
Walt’s voice is coated in thick emotion, so much that it shocks the kid into releasing him. “You know what this is. You know what happens now.” He pauses, his hand on the knob.   
  
When Jesse finds his voice again, it’s quiet, barely above a whisper. “You’re saying goodbye.”  
  
It’s not a question, because he’s known. He’s known for awhile now, that when Walt leaves him, it will be the last he ever sees of him. Two weeks ago, he couldn’t have been bothered to give a shit, would have been glad. But these last days holed up inside crappy motels with pay-per-view and soup and sandwiches and an almost peaceful serenity like those days in the RV had started to become a comfort to him.   
  
“I left another car here for you,” Walt informs him. “It’ll probably be traced, but maybe you can ditch it once you get out of here, as far as you can. Saul told me you wanted to go to Alaska – if you still want that, then go. Go, and live free, Jesse.”  
  
He’s swallowing, pushing back emotion, eyes threatening to glaze over in tears. Maybe it’s the truth that this man had always cared, somewhere underneath, about what happened to him, had maybe felt something for him that resembled friendship or the equal fondness of the partnership that Jesse had. Maybe the whole ‘concerned dad’ thing hadn’t been an act, that it existed there all along.   
  
He’s scared to breathe.   
  
Walt turns the knob and hurriedly, Jesse pushes himself between the man and the partly-open door, stunning them both. “Hey, hey, wait a second. You... you’re going after them, aren’t you? You’re not coming back, because you’re dying tonight. That’s what you’re telling me, right?”   
  
“Yes.” The response came easily, truthfully. “That’s what I’m telling you. I’m either dying, or going to prison, but I won’t last long there, not with the cancer eating away at me. Earlier, when you were asleep, I went to Lydia and made sure I slipped her the ricin and now it’s just them. They are the last bit of unfinished business I have left to accomplish, and then...”   
  
He needn’t have said anything else. Jesse understood.   
  
Walt turns, and there are tear tracks staining his cheeks, a smile curving his lips. Jesse’s shocked, even more so when the man reaches out to fondly caress his face, a touch that unlike those of the men back at the compound sent a flare of warmth and peace through him, and for the first time, he did not stiffen. “Goodbye, Jesse.”   
  
Jesse can’t speak, can’t make a sound. Every part of him is wanting to stop him, to ask him to stay, to just forget the revenge and stay with him until the cancer decides to depart him from this world, but at the most crucial moment, he finds he cannot voice those feelings. More than that, he doesn’t want to. He knows that this is what the man wants, for him to be safe, to be away from him, and even if he vowed to never do it again, this once, he is willing to do what Walt wanted.   
  
One last time.   
  
Still, he closes his eyes against the tender touch and nods his head. “Goodbye, Mr. White.”  
  
He hears Walt sniffle, and his touch retracts. When Jesse opens his eyes again, Walt is gone and he moves into the empty, silent hallway. There is no sign that the man was ever here, that he might still be, and when Jesse gets his feet working to peer out the window at the end of the narrow hall, the car is gone, another in its place – the one he left for Jesse.  
  
His knees buckle, and he releases a shuddering, shaky breath that he doesn’t realize he was holding all this time. He isn’t surprised to find his eyes wet, though he knows he should be. But through it all, he’s come to forgive Walter White and that is what surprises him most of all.   
  
Somehow, though... he feels he might be all right.


End file.
